


Sore

by 1031198



Category: The Breakfast Club (1985)
Genre: Bullying, Character Study, Depression, Heavy Angst, Sad, Suicide, sad Brian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:21:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29815245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1031198/pseuds/1031198
Summary: Just a character study for Brian, explaining him.
Kudos: 6





	Sore

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, dead fandom. If anyone actually reads this, thank you, and hopefully it isn't too sad. TW, this does contain suicide.

Brian couldn’t handle looking at a reflective surface for longer than a fleeting glance. The person staring back always sent him into a panic with his slightly acne-covered skin, puffy blond hair, and thick metal braces catching the light. He wanted to plunge his sharp fingernails into the soft layers of flesh that were protecting the obscure amount of fat and bone that lay beneath. It was horrendously ugly and, oh god, he would never please anyone. Inside of his corpse was a brain, spinning and whirring with thoughts that wouldn’t get him into a good college, or even a job at the local grocery store. He didn’t want to pass through life feeling this way, or any type of emotional way, for that matter. 

After school, after clubs, after getting slapped around a bit from older students, smarter students, bigger students, he would go home to nothing but a tight smile and nod to his room. In that quiet space, he would study until his eyes forced tears to surface just to stay clear, his ears hearing nothing but a rush of blood. It would always remind him how much of a loser he was, making no difference in a world in need of drastic change. He would sit at his desk and fill his mind with worthless facts and statistics of things that he could never understand. 

In a timely manner, his mom would call for him to come eat, something else that he was terrible at. His brain was always at work, pulling out memories from first grade when another child called him fat as they were running around the gym, knocking his self-esteem levels back to their normal abyss-like low. As he would sit at the table, he would curse his shirt sleeve for slipping up his wrist and exposing his bony wrists, showing his already disappointed parents how poor he was at managing his food intake and covering scars. He would struggle to take a bite of the bland vegetables, making excuses to rapidly counteract his empty stomach. I need to finish my chores, my homework needs to be looked over, I need to shower. 

With another lame excuse, he would try to get the dishes washed up, all while running on a small carton of apple juice from lunch. His breath would catch in his throat as he tried to make the black dots go away, his muscles clenching as he grasped the countertop for stability. His eyes would stare blankly at the scenery outside the window, a world holding nothing for him sprawling acres upon acres. With sheer will, he would be able to dry and put away the dishes without letting his act shatter on the floor along with the porcelain plates, a silent victory. 

His mom would wander into the room, taking out dish after dish, making sure that they were properly sparking. She would eye him carefully before excusing him, saying little to no words. He would travel back up the many stairs, trying to keep his lungs from giving up on him so he could gather his clean clothes for the shower. The bathroom always seemed to be a place of horror, with all the razors and the scale out in the open to taunt him. His overused knuckles would redden from their hold on the medicine cabinet door, and his thoughts would vanish as he grabbed the silver piece of sharp medal. 

A sacred place, on the linoleum floor, would be the place that his emotions would leave. Normally, it was his arms that got the brutal treatment, but he had been forced to relocate when there were too many raised piles of white scars lining up and down the surface. His thighs were a great place, perfectly good to hide the abrasions he caused. The blood always dribbled out quicker than his arms, something that was oddly soothing. Sure, tears would slide down his hapless face, but they didn’t change anything. He had thought of getting a real weapon, a knife perhaps, and cutting so deep into the artery that his blood would slide down into his lungs and pool on his brain, where it would drown out noises and visions and collect in thick droplets behind his ocean eyes. He never went through with it though, being the coward he was. He would just mark up his skin until the burn froze time and allowed him to continue with the shower. 

With the water at a devastatingly high temperature, he would shiver and his pale skin would form protective bumps all over it. His teeth would clatter and his arms would try to provide comfort to his tired body. He would wash up as fast as possible, wrapping his wounds meticulously and not forgetting to apply a topical solution. His knees would try to give out from supporting him as he brushed his teeth until his gums hurt, his arms shaking with exertion. He would wander back into his room, where he would sit at the desk, once again, until the single digits of the morning. 

Sleeping would always take his mind away for a short period of time until it was time to do it all over again. Getting up the next morning was always the worse, a headache sitting in his frontal lobes. His dad would always be waiting downstairs, reminding him of how much of a disappointment he was. A nerd with no athletic capabilities or masculine qualities, he was an abomination to his father. He would keep his head low as he moved to his bag and shoes, grabbing and going as fast as possible. 

Every day was normal, an endless cycle until he’d had enough. It wasn’t hard to locate another teen with a passion for guns, one that would show him the ins and outs of such a weapon. He had held the heavy iron in his hand, contemplating and crying until his skin was more irritated than normal. He tried to think about his options, but his mind had been made and he wasn’t about to change his plans.

It was a school day, the weather warm and sunny as summer approached. The day was normal for the most part, with the usual amount of harassment being used to keep him down. His eyes were on the big windows as he walked to the library, a place in the school that he usually took solace in. His mind was silent as he sat down at the center table in the huge room, a couple of students and teachers bustling around him. His bookbag was sat in the middle of the space, and he didn’t hesitate in pulling the gun out. It gave him hope for some odd reason, made him feel more alive just by looking at it. 

He was running out of time before someone noticed, so he ceremoniously placed it to one side of his temple, looking straight ahead. His eyes filled with tears as he sobbed, suddenly feeling the rush of emotions that he’d pushed to the back of his mind. He was beginning to falter, so slowly wilting again. His knee bobbed uncomfortably under the table, long limbs trying to find their place. 

It was the moment in which a teacher had finally noticed and had begun barreling toward him that he startled and accidentally squeezed the trigger. A loud pop sounded throughout the whole building, his whole body shutting down just like a power outage in a big city. Nerves began dying, his brain having a gaping hole inside and out. The teacher screamed through a silent world, blood and brain matter soiling her clothing and painting her face in dripping gore. The blond’s whole body was limp on the table, his blue orbs open, glassy, and staring ahead, legs and arms relaxed. He was finally relieved in a way, but the people milling around weren’t. The students that saw were instantly scarred, poor Brian Johnson had just blown his brains out at a table.

It wasn’t long before the paramedics had arrived, putting the body into a black bag and hauling it off to the morgue. Brian had left a brief legacy for the school, for the nerds, the outcasts, and the students who dealt with bullying. Afterward, a great gathering of all students and teachers formed, artificial sadness and empathy falling from their lips, until it slowly bled away to the same heartlessness that all high schools possess.


End file.
